


Kamikaze

by Shiggityshwa



Series: The Lamb [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, dark future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: A dark glimpse of SG-1 in the future under a malignant alien invasion. Takes place after "Haven". Second in a series of three.





	Kamikaze

“Its to deep of a cut to mend  
And there is no way we can go back, go back again  
And this is what we've got  
This is what we've go to live with”

— Hannah Georgas, “Enemies”

 

The ships are weird, unlike any he’s seen in his last ten years with the SGC. It’s hard to maneuver through the halls because the damn things have no lights. The aliens, they haven’t come up with a good name for the bastards yet, don’t have eyes, don’t really have anything but huge gapping mouths full of rows of teeth. Doesn’t know what they eat, but if they have any biological similarities to Earth creatures the pointed fangs can’t be a good thing.

It’s her idea.

Brought her in during the final hour like they were brainstorming before a big board meeting. Used her age old trick, used the rings, the rings they forgot they had because everyone was so busy freaking out about how an eighth of the Earth was nuked that no one was calm enough to build a better mousetrap.

No one is ever as pragmatic as her.

_“We are not bringing her onto the Odyssey.” Jackson chased him through the grand room that doubled as a ballroom because as he thought before, her castle isn’t so much a castle as it is an expensive Beverly Hills home._

_Did his best to ignore him, to ignore her excusing herself from her own chamber, half hung in fatigue from healing them both._

_They were walking with her energy._

_“That wasn’t part of the plan.”_

_Jackson’s boot slipped against the floor and the falter in his friend’s steps caused him to slow his own pace. “Sunshine, you’ve been at this job for the better half of fifteen years, when the hell has anything ever gone to plan?”_

They’re all fitted with little flashlights on the tops of their heads like miners, like they’re just going down to drill out some coal, and then off to the bar with the boys. He could use a good, heady beer right now, help coax him off into a sleep he hasn’t been able to grasp since all this shit started. Since he knows where her room is and he just lays there with his hands behind his head staring at the bolts drilled into the ceiling of the ship.

There’s four of them, he and Sam split off to try to find a control panel, try to use their miner hats to stare at a mound of different colored wires, and crystals, and something that looks like Simon game but with about forty more lights on it. He stands beside her, only offering extra light as she hooks up a laptop and it blue screens.

Jackson and her went together, just like old times.

_“There’s things not going according to plan, Mitchell, and then there’s bringing in a system lord wearing our friend.” Jackson crossed his arms half in defiance and disagreement, half in a gloat at his own opinion. “How—”_

_“Because it’s her—” didn’t know if she would appreciate him divulging the information so he tried to play it off. “She’s gonna have some good ideas. Gonna see something we overlooked.”_

_“She’s going to double cross us and—”_

_“Jackson, listen to me.” Smacked his hands on his friend’s shoulders instead of on the sides of his face because even though they’re close he doesn’t think they’re close enough for him to get away with that. Not like she does. “It’s her. That’s not Qetesh. That’s her.”_

He doesn’t get to see Jackson again.

_“No. No.” Shoulders shrugged out of his hold and Jackson took a step back, eyes squinted trying to read for the truth. “No. She would have told me.”_

_“She doesn’t want anyone to know.” He grinned at the flood of relief, no longer carried a secret, no longer had to celebrate her alone._

_“At the very least, you would’ve told me.”_

_“I just did tell you.”_

_“Did you ever think for a second it’s Qetesh playing you?”_

The aliens, a word he’s having a hard time with because he used to distribute the definition to people he loved. To the Roswell Asgardians who gave them tons of technology, to Teal’c who fought by his side for years and he knew had his back, to her because somehow her quirks, her raw luck is too supernatural to not be cosmic. These bastards aren’t like them. They don’t think about remorse, they don’t feel compassion or regret.

A pair of them sneak up behind him and Sam, send them flying over the control console into a mixed heap on the ground, the stench of burning houses and trash clog his nostrils and before he loses consciousness, he hopes that when he wakes up it’s to the warm glow of her hand device.

_“I’m not playing him or you, Daniel.” She leaned against the ornate wooden doors with carvings that depicted directions for holding festivals and sacrifices in her honor. “I’m just ensuring my own safety.”_

_Beside her a guard, the same guard that spoke to them a little over two years ago, held a backpack that almost looked like her old SGU one, and offered his arm out for her to take as she shuffled along. She hooked her arm through and slapped his muscles like a side of meat. “Thank you, Gus.”_

_“Gus?” He crooked an eyebrow at Jackson, who was stuck in a stunned silence, his brain probably fighting the debate of belief or disbelief. The trek through the house carried out in silence, just scuffed soles and deep sniffs._

_At the door she patted his arm again as he handed the bag to her. “If I don’t return, please protect each other.”_

Wakes flat on his face, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip and he can taste blood as it pours from an open wound. Sam already sits up on her knees beside him, her arms restrained tightly behind her back, her face bruised up a bit.

He shuffles his legs and sucks in a deep breath, pushing out against his ribs as he manages to construct himself on his knees without the used of his tied hands. Cranks his head towards Sam and begins to question, “what—”

But she violently shakes her head, eyes wider than he’s ever seen them and it makes him suck in his breath again if something can spook her this bad.

A door hisses open in the darkness, and by the faint red and blue glow of the Simon control panel he views the outline of them tossing her to her knees. She’s covered in blood and trembling and can’t keep her balance. She has on that red dress from yesterday, and even when they were waiting in the rings for the suicide mission she came up with, he still thought she looked beautiful.

Her body rocks in a comforting rhythm while she stares at something on the floor. The glow of Jackson’s headlamp in the middle of the floor.  

_“You mustn’t tell anyone that I’m not Qetesh.” They stood at the stargate, her skin radiated a new layer of white from the high sun hitting a later of sweat. She didn’t change before the hike, only pulled on a pair of black threaded boots that looked like they chaffed her thighs._

_He didn’t answer her because the speech was redundant, so he knew she wasn’t addressing him. Set his jaw as she unscrambled the DHD, stepping back to allow Jackson to input the signal for the rings._

_But Jackson didn’t move._

The aliens sort of click at each other, half corporeal, the bottom of them more gaseous than anything else, like black smoke from a forest fire. The clicking which sounds like metal clashing against metal increases in cadence and her heaving begins to unhinge her and his nerves crash.

So much blood over pale skin.

Over pale skin and—

_“You can not keep doing this.” Jackson snorted as the DHD beeped out for an input code before falling back into default mode._

_“Doing what?” The level of her voice sounded stoic and uninterested, maybe even a little playful, but the flicker of her eyebrow, the brief twitch, betrayed her emotions._

_She challenged._

 “We mean you no harm,” Sam pipes up beside him, big blue eyes blinking with a gentle ease, knees shifting on the ground as she attracts their attention. The clicking immediately stops, and even she drags her head up, eyes wide in fear, staring at their teammate. “We sent out the call for peace—”

Their voices synchronize, harmonize as they expel her name in a frantic call.

She reaches forward to Sam.

They’re coming back from shopping with Starbucks and she flashes him the credit card the bank was ‘all too quick’ to give her between deep red painted nails with a twinkle of her fingers before she bounded down the hall to her room.

He thought she was acting weird, just being quirky Vala.

_“Hiding behind masks of yourself.” About to jump in to inform Jackson that right now was not a great time to piss her off when she’d been masquerading as a psychopathic system lord for the last five years. But Jackson added, “you don’t have to be afraid to show us your real personality. We know who you are.”_

_The words quelled her irritation, her fingers unfurled from digging into her palms and her shoulders relaxed. She and Jackson just stared at each other a few minutes and neither ducked their eyes away once._

_And he knew Jackson and her went further than their constant bickering and rerunning comedy routine._

Thought she was weird, but that was her, the true her that when all the masks and memories settled within her began to reassert itself. She felt safe and loved among them and at the time he would’ve nodded and agreed.

_Jackson eventually dialed the call and the familiar static throughout his body told him they’re being transported up. When the rings settled General Landry, General O’Neill and about half a dozen soldiers trained their guns on her before she even took a step, before she had a moment to breathe._

_Five years ago, she would’ve blinked her eyes to him—no to Jackson—for reassurance. Was this normal Tau’ri practice? Did she have any reason to feel threatened? Should she feel fear? It was like teaching a child. What it really was was teaching her to function without the remnants of the monster who wore her as it’s favorite outfit for decades._

_Now her eyes didn’t portray fear, or threat, or even confusion._

_She rolled them, and then her shoulders and then began walking down the platform, all the guns clacked into place until he reached out an arm to halt her hip swaying gait at the same time as Jackson did._

Calls to her through the blindness drifting across his vision. It’s suffocating, dry wood and wet leaves igniting and the stream smoke pouring directly into his lungs. Flaps a hand before his face while another acts as a basic gasmask, sieving out what he can.

Calls her again.

And again.

Realizes he’s calling her name and not her alias. With another cough racking his throat he shouts, “Qetesh?”

_“You will not talk to anyone without permission and you most certainly will not touch anyone without permission.”_

_“Oh, now my dear general.” Hid coquettishly behind her shoulder and gave one of those academy award winning winks. “You’re just taking the fun out of this whole situation.”_

_“You will have a guard positioned outside of your room at all times and go no where unless accompanied by someone from SG-1.”_

_“Perhaps a guard posted in my room would work to both our—”_

_“Any failure to comply with these rules will result in immediate termination which I will take pleasure in carrying out myself.”_

_“Mmm.” Hummed and smacked her lips once. “I’m sure you will.”_

_And that was it._

_They sequestered her to her room, locked her up again like they did on the mountain and it didn’t make a lick of a difference, because she snuck out that night and snacked on leftovers in the kitchen, watched static dance across a small television shoved in the corner of the counter._

The air vacuums from his lungs and it grows pitch black and cold. Thinks maybe they jettisoned him into space, and his mind flips through all his education trying to remember how long a human can stay alive in cold, empty, hungry space.

But he gulps in air, then again, then opens his eyes to a dark room, missing a discarded headlight in the middle of the floor sitting like a patio lantern no longer. Then there’s a hand on his face, a little cold, but somehow warm, and strumming again always strumming giving the insinuation that she knows how to play an instrument when he knows she’s lying.

_“Why don’t you want to let them know it’s you?” They sat on her bed, not a four-poster with a silken privacy canopy strung round the top. Just a basic double mattress, with an army issued blanket and pillow. His back to her, but he still felt her curled up behind him, cold in the depths of space, cold because Qetesh didn’t wear jackets or sweaters or any material that covered enough to not make her blush and every man ogle._

_Her icy feet pressed into the side of his pants, pushed down on his thigh where the muscles already ached from walking through the jungle all day, from holding himself back not to touch her because he still remembers how she felt._

_But he does._

_Wrapped his fingers around her foot, and they both shivered at the transfer of temperature. Rocked his knuckles into the bottom of her arch, squeezed his fingers around her heel. Dared to let his hand roam higher, over her ankle and to the frozen skin on her shin, and was rewarded when she sighed, dozens of goosebumps puckering on her skin._

_Didn’t expect her to answer the question because she had worked tactfully to distract him. But she sighed again and shimmied her loose foot beneath his thigh. “Because it wouldn’t make a difference.”_

The smoke no longer smothers his throat or lungs, but he still can’t see. But then again, the room was dark to begin but for the bulb between. The three of them—came back with blood—Jackson went with—Jackson.

As the stark shock of panic begins to course through his veins, making him cold and empty, a hand claps down on his shoulder, another flutters his hair from the nape of his neck upwards to the tip of his skull, petting him like a retriever.

There’s a shaky inhalation that presses her taut stomach, the rigid hip bones that moved mechanically around him, over him, under his hands. Her hand covers his forehead pulling his body tight back against her and her stomach gurgles in hunger. Grins because she is always hungry. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah—”

Hand whips him back against her when he attempts to stand and he hisses as his boney knees scrape and shift over the metallic floor. “Do not lie to me Cameron because I will leave you where I stand.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

_She keened her feet away when the coarse pads of his fingers trailed over her arch just lightly enough for her to buck against him, kick him away._

_“Then why did you let me know?”_

_Her movement paused and then died altogether, legs retreated, gathered under the feathered skirt and then folded away into her body. Attention on the lazy stars and swirls out the window, but when he tucked his fingers around hers, she answered. “Because it made a difference to you.”_

There’s a shift in her mood, from worry fueled anger diffusing to remorseful, echoing sobs in the control room. Still confused and unsure what happened, but her body slides down the back of his, her bare arms encircling around his jacket, that if he didn’t know any better he would shimmy out of and offer to her.

“What happened?”

No answer but the force of her forehead rolling sideways against his spine. Of her hands burying under his ribs like she’s trying to give him the Heimlich.

“Jackson?”

The moisture from her tears begins to leak through the thick material and he has to shrug her off. Hates to do it but has to and the guilt he feels for doing so will never disappear. When the restraints loosen, he turns, shooting a hand out into the dark and it ricochets off her shoulder, then he clasps down, holding on to her, feels her convulse with another sob. “Sam?”

_“Then why did you tell Jackson?” It was getting dangerous, their proximity, the soft sighs of her breathing and the huff of her breasts collected and smothered in that dress. Her lips, her eyes, her hair, her scent. The combination shot him full of regret, of failure, of the need for a mulligan, of the need to protect._

_To please._

Sniffles loudly, hoarsely and if anyone else were present it would be obvious that she’s not a refined God of sex. “Dead.”

“Dead?” Body reverberates as she nods. “Dead?”

Another nod.

Both his hands cup her shoulders now as he tries to keep them both stable, as he tries to translate her nonverbal answers in a room without light. Doesn’t speak for a minute or so, just listening to her sniffles and snorts until he needs clarification. “What do you mean dead?”

“What do _you_ mean ‘dead’?” Her sassy backtalk accentuated by the liquid sound of the back of her hand dragging across her nose. “Did you not see those things rip Samantha apart? They bisected her, Cameron, right down the middle just slipped through her and—”

Yanks her to him, her head resting sideways against his chest and her voice quiets until silent sobs return raking her body. “Stop.”

_When his eyes drifted back from the lazy stars and swirls of outside, a bit dejected at her lack of an answer to him. She was staring at him, lips rolled together until her mouth opened and she blinked slow, let her lashes meet and mingle so she could dry out any tears that dared to form. “I didn’t, darling. You did.”_

Her bare skin is tacky with drying blood, the kind he’s seen flake there before, and he pets the back of her head, soft hair dragging between his fingers while she explains how she and Jackson were having another argument about safety, about trust, about appreciation and sacrifice when an alien cornered them.

“It tore into me. Rows of rotating teeth masticated my flesh and Daniel jumped in before it could completely tear off my arm. And instead—”

Squashes his cheek against the top of her head and over the smell of brimstone, over the stench of the copper and pennies lingering in each finger slipping against the blood on her skin, he can smell her, the way she smelled in the cell, the unsurprising scent and taste of her. Doesn’t hide it well in his staccato exhale harshly ruffling her hair. “We need to get out of here.”

_Jackson turned off the TV in the kitchen, like a parent about to punish their child, and he stood there expecting her to address him, to address the fact that she was breaking the deal of being restricted to her room and instead she directed herself to the door catching a glimpse of him hiding around the corner just as Jackson shot out an arm and yanked her back into place._

_“Why?”_

_“My dear Daniel.” Tried to act nonplussed by his physical nature, but the way she dusted off her arms, the way her head ducked down just slightly, the tells she has of being uncomfortable, and if he was a man, and walked into the room, she’ would’ve been able to hide behind him. “You’ll have to elaborate just a squish on—”_

_“Why?”_

_Rolled her eyes at him, her lips a tight line as she tried to slip by him again, only his hand caught her again, the same part of her bicep, and he wrenched her back, shaking her when she tried to free herself from his grasp again._

_“Why?”_

_“Because I never felt safe with you. I never felt safe on Earth, and your incessant need to keep me locked away like some menace to—”_

_Shook her again, and she smacked at his shoulder to release his hold. “I want the real reason.”_

_“That is the real reason.”_

_“It’s not because of being captured? It’s not because of Mitchell and the guards and—”_

_She slapped Jackson so hard that he stumbled back, his ass hit the counter and the TV jittered. Walked out of the kitchen and right by him, like he was less than shit on her boots because at least then she’d fight to get rid of him. She didn’t acknowledge him until he peddled his way to her room, knocked until she answered and begged for a conversation about anything._

Tugs back, staring at him through the dark and if he squints hard enough he can make out of the white of her eyes, and if he squints even harder there’s a six-bar dissection across a milky moonshine on the floor and not Sam’s blood.

Blood he hasn’t even begun processing.

“There is no way out of here.”

“What are you—” The blood staining her skin is Jackson’s and a bit of her own. If he isn’t aware of where his hands scroll over her shoulders he slips to deep puncture wounds thick and tarlike across her back. Not wide enough to be a hazard but enough in numbers and drilled straight through flesh and muscle, almost into the bone.

Knows the cadence and the words of her reminder before she sets in, imagines the expression on her face, eyes narrowed and trying to hide the tremble in her lips as she retells him what he already knows. “This was a suicide mission, Cameron.”

“So?”

“So we finish this now.”


End file.
